


Lying in the Reeds

by Mugatu



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: First Time, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, canon atypical discussion of emotions, kind of, messy communication issues, mild misuse of beholding powers, post 159, sex isn't actually that explicit just tagged it to be safe, sex-neutral jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-01-25 19:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mugatu/pseuds/Mugatu
Summary: The Lonely is not cold enough to kill; not cold enough to even hurt really. It’s the cold of an empty office in summer when the air con is turned up, staring at the sunshine through thick panes of glass. Still, Martin Blackwood can’t seem to feel warm even hours after leaving it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 42
Kudos: 564





	1. Chapter 1

The Lonely is not cold enough to kill; not cold enough to even hurt really. It’s the cold of an empty office in summer when the air con is turned up, staring at the sunshine through thick panes of glass. Still, Martin Blackwood can’t seem to feel warm even hours after leaving it.

Martin surfaces into the real world clutching Jon’s hand, and they’re on a crowded London street instead of the tunnels. Jon looks as confused as Martin feels about this, blinking owlishly around him at the crowds of people moving past not paying either of them any mind. Martin reflects in a way this is an even Lonelier place to be than that fog enshrouded shoreline they just came from, and he feels that deep chill clutch harder at him.

It takes them both a moment and the scream of a police siren to realize exactly where they are, and that the crowds of people rushing past aren’t just busy London commuters. They’re not fifty meters from the entrance to the Magnus Institute, the entire street cordoned off with police tape and sawhorses. Curious onlookers are forcefully turned away by police, some of them Martin recognizes as Sectioned officers. All their eyes are hard and watchful, and a few have that glint of the Hunt staring out as they scan the crowds.

“Come on,” Jon whispers, tugging Martin’s hand, “We need to leave.”

*********************************************

The chill persists all the way back to Martin’s flat. He feels it even in the Underground although he _knows_ it is hot, it’s _always_ hot regardless of the time of year. Beside him Jon has undone his own jacket and his temples are damp with sweat but Martin is just _cold._ He thinks if he lets go of Jon’s hand he might freeze solid. But he has to let go eventually. When they reach his flat he has to fish the keys out of his pockets, shivering as he does so.

When they get inside Jon herds him to his couch immediately, grabbing the quilted throw off the back then wrapping it around his shoulders. Martin curls up as Jon heads toward the kitchen. A few minutes later Jon presses a cup of steaming tea into Martin’s hands.

Jon hovers in front of him, worry knitted on his brows. Martin smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring and says, “I’m fine, Jon.” Then, because that wouldn’t be adequate even if it were true adds, “I mean…I’m not going anywhere. Just. Just cold, is all.”

“I can turn up the heat,” Jon says immediately.

Martin shakes his head, remembering how even the muggy damp heat of the Underground couldn’t penetrate the shell of the Lonely that still clings to him. “Just…just…” _Hug me, kiss me, remind me that I’m not alone, “_sit next to me?”

Jon stares at him for another moment, then blinks, eyes widening a little. “Oh. _Oh.”_

Before Martin can puzzle that reaction out Jon is gently taking the mug of tea from his hands, pushing him back against the couch, and climbing into his lap.

“Jon, what—“ is all Martin is able to sputter out, because Jon is cradling his face and tilting it up. This close Martin can see that Jon’s dark brown eyes have flecks of copper and gold in them. He smiles shyly then leans down and presses a questioning kiss against Martin’s mouth. Martin jumps a little with a snort of surprise; his lips tingling with warmth. Jon’s hands are still on Martin’s face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. When Jon moves in for another kiss Martin leans into it, meeting him halfway.

They trade soft, close-mouthed kisses, each one like a sip of hot tea on a cold morning. Jon is the one to escalate things, licking at Martin’s lips and encouraging him to open his mouth. Martin hears himself groan, and wraps his arms around Jon’s slim body and holds him close. Jon is so _warm_, in a way that goes beyond body heat.

He isn’t sure how long they’ve been kissing before Jon is pulling away, grabbing at the hem of Martin’s jumper. Martin leans forward to make it easier for Jon to tug up and off. Strangely enough Martin feels warmer as soon as it’s off; especially when Jon’s eyes sweep over his bare chest. Jon smiles a little, shy, and then pulls off his own jumper.

Martin lets out a shocked breath, eyes wide. Jon is too thin, his chest dotted with the puckered worm scars leftover from Jane Prentiss, and the bottom of his rib cage looks…_crooked._

He’s _beautiful._

Martin lays a shaking hand over Jon’s heart, almost surprised to feel it beating. Jon makes an encouraging noise, taking Martin’s other hand and guiding it to the skin of his back. Jon breathes out Martin’s name, soft and reverent, then leans forward to kiss him more. Martin whimpers and squeezes Jon against him, chest to chest. Jon is a furnace, and Martin clings to him to soak his warmth, desperate to get even closer, wanting to burrow into Jon’s skin.

Some distant part of his mind tries to tell Martin they shouldn’t be doing this, especially not now. Tries to remind him that Jon…_doesn’t._ At all. But these thoughts are difficult to hear when Jon is kissing his jaw, and _impossible_ to hear over Jon whispering “Do you…do you want to take this to…ah, to the bedroom?” into Martin’s ear.

“Yes, god yes, you have no idea…”

“Do it, then.”

Martin wonders for a second if there’s a tinge of compulsion in those words, becausehe pushes himself to his feet immediately, Jon still in his arms.

“_Oh,”_ Jon says, sounding surprised and pleased at being lifted so easily. He wraps his legs around Martin’s waist and tightens his arms around Martin’s shoulders. He’s so _warm, _and seems to get warmer with each of Martin’s staggering steps toward the bedroom.

Everything has a dreamlike quality to it, and Martin wonders briefly if he’s trapped in the Lonely still. Wonders if this is an elaborate scenario designed to torment him. A highly unrealistic one; Martin has had plenty of fantasies about sex with Jon, and has never been able to imagine a scenario this lacking in awkwardness. Although it was never this warm in the Lonely.

As they remove the rest of their clothing Martin keeps asking Jon if he’s sure, telling him they don’t _have _to do this. He knows Jon loves him, he _saw_ it. Jon just responds with gentle encouragement, telling Martin whatever he wants is ok.

“Do you want to do this?”

Martin can only answer honestly, “_Yes,_ I do, but _Jon…”_

“It’s ok,” Jon says again. Martin is lost, Jon is full of _warmth,_ so much warmth. Warmth Martin can still feel when Jon briefly disentangles from him, going straight to the correct drawer of Martin’s nightstand.

“I haven’t, haven’t got—“ Martin stammers out, “Condoms…” He has other stuff, but not that. He hasn’t had a wank in ages but still has lube and tissues and a few toys. Something _Lonely,_ only having sex supplies to be used by one, and even Lonelier to still not use them.

“We don’t need them,” Jon says absently. He looks awkward and unsure for the first time since he kissed Martin, although it fades quickly. “I…erm…I’m not…I don’t get sick, anymore. From anything.”

“Oh,” Martin says, as Jon pours lube in his hands, rubbing them together to warm it before slicking down Martin’s dick. “_God, _Jon—“ the words feel ripped from Martin’s throat, dusty from lack of use.

After that any of Martin’s mental objections fade into a desperate, frantic, atavistic _need _to get as physically close to Jon as possible. The other man is more than accommodating, rolling over onto his back and pulling Martin firmly on top of him, holding him tight as Martin grinds against him. Just as Martin thinks it’s not _enough _Jon is spreading his legs wide, gripping Martin’s dick and guiding it…

“You have to…” Martin pants, “Jon, you have to…_prepare…”_

_“_Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. It’s ok.”

Martin knows he should be protesting more, but it’s hard for a starving man to turn down a meal offered up on a silver platter. He surges forward, forcing himself to at least be _gentle. _Jon cries out, and when Martin freezes Jon pets his shoulders and gasps, “I’m fine, I’m fine. Don’t stop.”

“Jon, _please,” _Martin whimpers even as he slides in deeper, overwhelmed with heat, warm in a way he hasn’t been in months, “Please, be _sure_…”

Jon doesn’t answer with words, just grabs Martin’s hips and pulls him closer. When Martin’s all the way in they both shout the other’s name, voices overlapping. Martin pushes into that tight heat over and over, the last vestiges of the Lonely burning away with every thrust. Jon’s breath is hot against his neck, urging him on and groaning Martin’s name.

When he finishes, Martin just…collapses. Every ounce of strength has been burned away along with the cold, he can do nothing but shake in Jon’s arms. He might be crying as he presses his face into Jon’s neck, tears hot. Jon just holds him, combing his fingers through Martin’s hair and stroking his back. Martin knows he should say something, _needs_ to say something, needs to at least move so he’s not crushing Jon. Clean up. But while he’s trying to think of the words or even gather enough energy to lift his head he drifts off.

*********************************************

The bed is empty when Martin wakes up an unknown amount of time later. He thinks it was a very long time, longer than he’s slept since before the Unknowing. Before he was lost in grief and guilt, before he fully embraced the Lonely. Few things are as lonely as being awake as the rest of the world sleeps, after all. Few things are as lonely as walking around in a sleepy fog that made it seem like he was never _awake._

He still doesn’t feel quite awake _now,_ but he’s getting there. It’s not the ragged fog of the Lonely, just the simple grogginess that comes after a heavy sleep. He rolls over onto his back and the sheet comes with him, stuck to his skin, itchy and unpleasant. As he realizes just how…_gross_ he is, the memories of last night come with unforgiving clarity.

Martin had sex last night. For the first time in nearly two years. Pretty good sex. With _Jon._

Each of these facts is more unbelievable than the one preceding it. He would’ve dismissed it as a dream—filthy, disgusting sheets and all—but the skin is tender on that spot where his neck meets his shoulder, where he remembers Jon biting at one point.

He…he doesn’t know how he feels about it, to be honest. He can feel guilt lurking around the edges of the sated, animal contentment. Guilt that creeps closer when he sees a note on the nightstand written in Jon’s messy hand.

_Gone to the shop, you’re out of food. I won’t be long, don’t worry._

Underneath is a line that had been scratched out, and underneath _that_ is: _Love, Jon._ The “love” is darker more prominent that any of the other words, as though Jon had pressed the pen extra hard into the paper.

That _guilt_ grows sharper, and Martin sucks in his breath, squeezing his eyes tight.

_Love, Jon._

They haven’t actually said the words to each other yet. Not properly; Martin had admitted it back in the Lonely when he thought Jon was an apparition. Later, Jon had given him the incredible, selfless gift of showing everything he was to Martin, he _saw _all of Jon’s love pouring out. He also saw all of Jon’s messiness and imperfections, and Martin fell in love all over again.

“Fuck,” Martin whispers to the empty room. He never wanted Jon to feel…_obligated_, to feel like he had to…_to…_Martin should’ve stopped him; no matter how desperately he wanted…

_Love, Jon._

He says a quick prayer that he hasn’t irrevocably cocked everything up, then heads to theen suite bathroom. Before he doees anything else he needs to rinse the grime off.

*********************************************

Martin emerges from the shower scrubbed clean, although he still bears plenty of evidence of what he’d done. The bathroom mirror reveals that his neck is covered in love bites, a rainbow of purples and reds and pinks. There are also long scratches down his back, some deep enough they drew blood. He dresses quickly then stumbles into the living room in search of Jon.

He finds Jon sat on the couch, hunched over what looks like Martin’s own laptop. If he’s been out to the shop he must’ve come back ages ago, he looks relaxed and comfortable. His glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose and he’s scowling a little as he types rapidly. He’s also wearing some of Martin’sclothes—flannel pajama bottoms and a grey cardie, the sleeves of which come down past his wrists. Martin is unprepared for the warm fondness that suffuses his chest at the sight of him, so intense it makes his eyes well up. For too long his feelings for Jon have been jagged, icy shards that do nothing but remind him of how alone he is.

“Jon?” Martin says, and the other man starts a little, blinking at Martin in a way that makes more of that warmth bubble up. Martin’s seen that same look hundreds of times at work, whenever Jon’s pulled away from something he’s focused on. Like he’s a sleepwalker who has no idea where he is or how he got there. Depending on what he’s doing he’s either annoyed at being interrupted or bewildered at how much time has passed. He registers Martin and he’s neither annoyed nor bewildered, instead he looks pleased. He treats Martin with the same smile he gave last night before kissing him—sweet and a little shy. If someone had told Martin years ago that Jon could smile like that he wouldn’t have believed it. _Especially_ if he was told that smile was for _him._

“Martin,” Jon says, “You’re up, excellent. I was about to wake you.” He sets the laptop aside then walks right up to Martin and hugs him without a trace of self-consciousness. Jonathan Sims gives good hugs. It’s obviously not the _most _surprising thing Martin’s learned about him, but it’s up there. The hug lasts a long time, Jon petting Martin’s back and nuzzling his shoulder, catlike. Finally Jon disentangles enough he can lean back and study Martin’s face. Whatever he sees must please him, because Martin is treated to that sweet, shy, smile again. “Right. You look…you look better. Get enough sleep, then?”

“I think so,” Martin says, “I don’t…how long was I out?”

“Twelve hours, eighteen minutes, forty seconds.”

“That’s…that’s very precise…oh. Erm. Right.” 

Jon’s sweet smile fades and he drops his eyes, shifting guiltily, “I’m sorry…I can’t help it sometimes, I’m trying not to—“

“It’s fine, Jon,” Martin says. He’s having trouble thinking with Jon still in his arms and this close to him. Although it’s curiously nonsexual.

Then Martin remembers that it _shouldn’t_ be curious, and only is because of last night. He takes a step back from Jon, who frowns and fidgets even more. “Do you…do you want a cup of tea? I was just about to make another one. And there’s some curry in the fridge; I can heat it up—“

Martin shakes his head, fighting the cowardly urge to delay this conversation. “No. Jon, we need to talk about what happened yesterday.”

“Oh! Right, of course,” Jon says, looking relieved, “How long do you think it will take you to pack up? I’ve looked at the train schedules, there’s a few that run straight through to Glasgow, do you think you can be ready by—“

“_Jon,_” Martin says, cutting him off, “That’s not…wait, Glasgow? Scotland?”

“Yes. We need to get out of London. The police will be looking for us; no one knows where Elias…I, I mean where _Jonah Magnus_ is…anyway, I managed to get in touch with Basira, she knows a place we can hole up—“

“The police…what…” Martin trails off, he needs a moment to process this. He hasn’t _forgotten_ what happened at the Institute yesterday, hasn’t forgotten the police cars, hasn’t forgotten that Peter let out the Not-Sasha. Hasn’t forgotten that Elias has been Jonah Magnus all this time. Hasn’t forgotten the Panopticon and what Peter wanted him to do.

Hasn’t forgotten that Peter Lukas is dead.

It was just that it all seemed so unimportant until Jon started talking. Martin takes in a deep breath, and then another. For months he’d been so apart from everything, watching unnoticed from a distance, being up close is…_jarring_. “I…is everyone ok?”

“The police haven’t found any bodies,” Jon says, “Daisy…Daisy is missing. Basira doesn’t think…she’s probably not coming back. I tried to Look for her, but…but I can’t _see_ her, and I’m afraid…” Jon swallows, “The rest of the Institute staff are ok. Some injuries, but not trace of the other Hunters, so they’ll be looking for us too. Well, looking for me, at least.”

“Other Hunters?”

“Oh. Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk,” Jon says, “They…um…they showed up at the Institute right when…”

“Right,” Martin says, “So…erm…I guess…are we safe here? Now?”

“For awhile longer, but we should head for Scotland as soon as we’re able.How long do you think it will take you to pack up? I’ve looked at the train schedules, there’s one leaving Euston at half ten, is that enough time?”

“Why Scotland?”

“Basira said it’s where one of Daisy’s safe houses is. It’s the farthest one from London unless we want to head for the Continent, which I don’t think is—“

“_One_ of Daisy’s safe houses?” Martin says, although he doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He opens his mouth to ask more questions before forcefully reminding himself that he’s getting distracted again. “We’ll…we’ll get back to all that. That’s not what I meant when I said we needed to talk.”

Jon looks confused, brow furrowed, then that flash of enlightenment comes over his face, then he’s back to confused, “You want to talk about the sex? I mean…I’m ok doing it again, but we don’t have time. Maybe when we get to Scotland—“

“What? No! That’s not what I—Jon, could you please stop…stop _Knowing_ things?”

Jon flushes and drops his eyes, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, “I’m sorry. I don’t do it on purpose. Well. Most…most of the time I don’t. I mean, I did last night to make sure I was doing things right, I should’ve said—“

“Wait, you did _what…_never mind, we’ll go back to that,” Martin says, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a steadying breath, “I wanted to talk about…I mean, first of all, I’m sorry._”_

“For what?” Jon says, sounding genuinely bewildered.

“For…” Martin takes in a breath, “I mean, I know that you don’t…I just, you didn’t have to—“

Jon’s bewilderment fades, replaced by irritation, “I’m _aware_, you only told me a dozen times. I wanted to.”

“_Why?”_ Martin asks.

“Because…” Jon does that guilty shuffle, “I. Well, I wasn’t _trying_ to Know, then. Just did, when I looked at you. That you wanted to, and it would make you feel better.”

“Just because someone _wants_ to do something doesn’t mean they _should,_” Martin counters, “Or that they _need_ to.”

Jon looks horrified, then, “Oh God, Martin…I’m sorry, I didn’t…I mean, I thought…I didn’t realize you felt _pressured—_“

“That’s not what I meant at all,” Martin says, “I didn’t…I don’t want to ever pressure _you._ I know you were trying to make me feel better, I shouldn’t have let you—“

“_Let_ me?” Jon says, “I’m not a child. I knew what I was doing.”

“Because of your spooky Beholding…_thing—“_

Jon’s head jerks back, as though Martin has physically slapped him. When he speaks his voice is hoarse, “I’m sorry…I just…I’m not _good_ at this. Some people get mad that I don’t want to have sex, then mad again when I _do; _because I’m not wanting to enough, or the right way, or…”

“_Jon,”_ Martin says, laying his hands on the other man’s shoulders, because he can’t stand to see him beat himself up for this, “Ok. Let’s start over. You’re enough for me, however you are. And you never _owe_ me, especially not that.”

Jon stares at him for several long moments, “Ok. We’re talking in circles. I didn’t do it because I thought I _owed_ you. I did it because I _wanted_ to.”

“To make _me_ happy,” Martin says.

“So?” Jon says, frustration creeping into his voice, “When you made me endless cups of tea, even when I was being a paranoia machine, did you do it because you had some deep craving to boil water and steep teabags? Or did you do it because you wanted to do something nice for me?”

“Sex is a _bit_ more…_more…_than making tea,” Martin says, fighting an immature voice that wants to make a comment about “tea bags”.

“Not to me,” Jon says, “Look, I can take it or leave it, but it’s not…I know I’m enough for you, alright? That’s one of the reasons I felt comfortable enough to _do_ it.”

“Oh,” Martin says. His hands are still on Jon’s shoulders, and the other man reaches up to lay his own hands on top of them.

“_Martin,”_ Jon says, swallowing, “I’m sorry, I forget sometimes…we probably should’ve had this conversation first.”

“You think?” Martin says, voice dry as the Sahara.

The corner of Jon’s lip twitches, and he swallows again, “I’m sorry. Like I said I’m not…I don’t have a lot of practice with this. Relationships in general, I mean. Talking about…erm…_boundaries_ and things. And…and it’s gotten awkward, before, when I’ve had to _ask_ people what I should be doing. And I didn’t stop to think about how the whole Knowing thing would make you uncomfortable—“

“It doesn’t,” Martin say immediately, “Well it does, but only because I just…well, I don’t have that, do I? And I _worry.”_

_“_You’re just going to have to trust me,” Jon says sardonically, “Which I know can be difficult with the spooky Eye thing, and all. But…I didn’t go into the Lonely for you because I felt like I owed you, and I’m not with you now because I feel like owe you, and I didn’t have sex with you because I felt _obligated_. It wasn’t some horrible ordeal I was suffering through.”

“I trust you, of course I do. Idiot,” Martin says, “Spooky eye thing and all. You just don’t take care of yourself.”

“Look who’s talking,” Jon says, squeezing Martin’s fingers, then twisting his head to one side to place a kiss against them, "Look…we…we can talk more about this. Lots. But we really need to get moving.”

“Right,” Martin says. They need to get moving, because the police and their scary semi-omniscient former boss might be looking for them. “We’ll get moving, I just want to be sure we’re ok?” Martin says, unable to stop from phrasing that as a question.

Jon looks flustered in a way he didn’t when talking about sex, “Are you ok?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am,” Martin answers, “Just…try not to Know things, ok? Especially when it comes to…and when you can’t help Knowing, just give me a heads up.”

“Then I’m ok, too,” Jon answers. He hesitates for a minute, then, “Just…I understand that you worry about me, and believe me you have no idea how refreshing it is to be with someone who doesn’t have _expectations,_ but I still…I’m not too immature or delicate to, to _consent._”

“Ok,” Martin says, then he reviews what Jon’s just said and realizes there’s one more thing to clarify. “Um. ‘Be with someone’. Are we…_with_ each other?”

“Aren’t we?” Jon says, a line forming between his brows.

“I guess?” Martin says, “I mean, I want us to be. We just didn’t…” he huffs out a laugh, “We haven’t talked much, is all. Since we left the Lonely.”

Jon smiles, sweet and shy, “Well. Erm. We have a few hours to pack, and it’s five hours to Glasgow, and after _that_ we need to take a bus for three hours. There’s time. For us to talk about everything.”

_There’s time. _Martin thinks those two words are enough to keep him warm for the rest of his life. He realizes how many things he wants to talk to Jon about; and sex is at the bottom of that list. He has no idea what’s going to happen to them in the coming days, no idea what Elias’ end game is, but for now _there’s time._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a one-shot, but I wanted to do a little bit on Jon's thoughts/feelings. CW for non-graphic discussion of past sexual coercion.

Two hours into their journey and they haven’t talked as much as Jon hoped. It’s his own fault, Jon hadn’t realized how _tired _he was until the train pulled away from the station. He was lulled almost immediately into a light doze by a combination of the soothing rhythm of the train and the equally soothing presence of Martin at his side. Shouldn’t have been a surprise; he’d only been able to snatch a few hours’ sleep last night. Very _restful_ hours—Martin falling asleep on top of him was easily the loveliest thing he’s experienced in the past decade—but not enough of them. When Jon woke up pinned down by Martin’s reassuring bulk it was a little less lovely. They hadn’t done even the most perfunctory of cleanups before falling asleep and it was, to be frank, _disgusting. _They were practically glued together, and Jon’s still amazed he didn’t wake Martin when he extracted himself from the bed.

So Jon spends the first hour of their journey dozing with his cheek against Martin’s shoulder. He might have slept the entire way if he weren’t roused when Martin ordered a cup of tea from the trolley service.“Sorry,” Martin says when Jon straightens up and blinks around him.

The attendant smiles at Jon and asks if he wants anything from the trolley, and he’s stunned to find he’s hungry for _food._ He orders what looks like the least terrible sandwich available and a packet of crisps. Beside him Martin’s stomach rumbles audibly, and he lays a hand on his middle and looks surprised. He tells the attendant he’ll have what Jon is having plus a package of Jaffa Cakes. The carriage is half full; Jon and Martin are able to switch to table seats. They sit opposite each other, spread the food out between them, and eat mostly in silence. It’s not uncomfortable; but Jon _knows_ Martin wanted to talk. Also, Martin spends a lot of time staring absently out the window, and when Jon catches a glimpse of his reflection it reminds him too much of how Martin looked in the Lonely.

Martin finishes eating, still absently staring out the window at the countryside. His hand lies temptingly on the table, and Jon debates whether or not to take it for several minutes. He makes a few abortive moves toward it, stretching out his own hand before pulling back at the last second. Then Jon sighs and gives in, “May I hold your hand?”

Martin starts, pulling his attention away from the the window and looking at Jon. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are a little pink. “Yeah?” then, “You. Erm. Don’t really need to ask.”

Jon huffs out an irritated noise as he laces their fingers together, “I don’t want to overstep.” Martin stares at him for a beat, then bursts out laughing. A small part of Jon wants to be cross, but the rest doesn’t care _why_ Martin’s laughing, just so long as he is. “What?”

“It’s just…you think holding my hand could be overstepping. After last night.”

“We weren’t in public last night,” Jon says, feeling his own cheeks heat up, “And I still asked you.”

“You did, yeah,” Martin says, smiling fondly and running his thumb over Jon’s knuckles. He’s quiet for a moment before he clears his throat and says, “Erm. Right. You said we could talk about it later. Is now good?”

Jon reflexively looks around the carriage, cheeks growing even hotter. No one is paying them any mind, and their closest neighbors are several rows away, “Alright then.”

“Right,” Martin says. He doesn’t start talking immediately, just furrows his brows as he thinks about what to say, “I know…I know what you said about how you can consent. And you’re quite right, you’re a grown-up. I just…I want to understand? I thought you _didn’t?_ Do you…sometimes? Or was it really only about me?”

Jon sighs, he supposes it’s a fair enough question, “Well. Normally I…I don’t. Just…don’t have the urge. Doesn’t mean it was awful, or I minded it. I was glad I could make you feel better.”

“Like making me a cup of tea,” Martin says, the corner of his lip curling up.

Jon’s cheeks heat up again as he remembers their conversation this morning, “Well. Yeah. I mean, you were right that it’s a bit…_more, _but the intention is the same.”

Again, Martin stares at him for a beat before he bursts out laughing. And again Jon is too glad to hear him laugh to feel properly cross it’s at his expense. Some of it must still show on his face because Martin squeezes Jon’s fingers and says, “Sorry. I’m not laughing at _you;_ I just…” His cheeks aren’t just _pink,_ in fact they bypass red and go all the way to puce, “I was just remembering of all the fantasies of having you over your desk I used to indulge in. To think, in a way I was living out my fantasy for _years _with every cup of tea I sat on your desk.”

Jon barks out a laugh of his own, “Well. Maybe that’s not the _best _analogy.”

Martin smiles and runs his thumb over Jon’s knuckles again. It makes Jon shiver and feel warm all at once. He thinks he’d do anything so long as Martin promises to hold his hand after. “Does it…” Martin frowns, “I guess…did you get anything out of it? _Besides_ making me happy. I mean, when I make you a cup of tea I’m usually making one for me as well.”

Jon drums his fingers against the table as he hunts for an explanation. He doesn’t see why it’s necessarily a _bad_ thing to do something primarily to make Martin happy. Not just _happy,_ last night there’d been a moment when Martin looked…_free._ Unburdened. Jon thinks even if sex were the horrible ordeal Martin worries it would’ve been worth it just to see him like that. Jon knows that Martin goes about his everyday life embarrassed by his own body, about just how much of it there is. In Martin’s own eyes he’s too tall, too broad, too heavy. He walks with his shoulders hunched to minimize his height, stands at a distance so he doesn’t _loom,_ and speaks in a way that seems to be an apology for taking up so much space. Last night there’d been several moments when Martin seemed liked he’d forgotten all of that. And after, the way he melted into Jon’s arms shivering and whispering endearments through relieved tears…

“Why does it matter?” Jon asks, then, “You deserve someone doing things just for _you._”

Martin goes puce again, “I…there’s other things you can do for me. I’d…things that both of us enjoy.”

“I _did_ enjoy it. Yes, it _was_ mostly about you, but…it was nice. It felt good. Endorphins. Oxytocin.”

“But?” Martin says.

“From what I understand I’m not as enthusiastic about the whole thing as I should be,” Jon sighs, that’s not quite good enough, so he tries again, “Let’s say someone cooks you dinner. And it’s. It’s good, really good. When you’re done they ask if you want dessert, but you’re too full, and don’t go for sweets much anyway. But you don’t want the meal to end, and you’re fine _watching _the other person eat…and, and sometimes it looks good and you try a few bites. And sometimes…sometimes it’s good and you decide you _do_ want dessert after all.”

“Great, now you’ve ruined sweets for me too,” Martin says with a wry smile. Then he turns serious, dropping his eyes to their linked hands for a moment before returning to Jon’s face, “I…I won’t lie, I _like_ dessert, a _lot…_well at least in theory. I’ve had a lot of really _bad_ desserts over the years, and the meals preceding them were even worse…but. Point is, I don’t need it. Especially if…ah, the meal is good. If I’m still hungry I can always fix something myself.”

It’s Jon’s turn to drop his eyes then. His chest tightens and he whispers, “I know. That’s why…” He blinks rapidly, and before he can stop himself blurts out, “I’ve…I’ve been told I must not really have liked the meal if I didn’t want dessert. That something _must_ be wrong with me—“

“_Jon,”_ Martin says, in that firm tone of his that works as well as any compulsion. Jon chances a glance at his face and has to look away again at the expression of raw tenderness there, “I’m going to need you to stop using food metaphors.”

“Right,” Jon says, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand and still unable to look Martin in the eye, “Ok. I’ve had sex with three people…well, four, I suppose? Depending on how you count it.”

“Including me?”

Jon nods, “Well, I mean…I suppose depending on your _definition_ of sex I’ve had it more than that, with Georgie I didn’t really _participate_, just held her sometimes while she, erm, took care of herself—“ He’s babbling again. Is it bad form to discuss almost sex with your ex? How much detail does Martin need?

“I think it counts if you think it does,” Martin says softly.

Jon considers arguing the point; he knows virginity is a social construct and what is and isn’t sex is more subjective than most people think. But that’s not the point of this conversation, is it? “Ok. Well, in secondary school this girl I fancied—or thought I did, at least—we tried oral sex. I liked doing it to her, I liked it a _lot_, but when she did it to me…”

Jon frowns, and stares out the window of the train as he tries to remember. The whole thing is blurred by the years and the fact he’d been drunk for the first time in his life. He remembers that he liked the way she pulled his hair, and the way her thighs squeezed his face. Liked the way she’d cried out when she climaxed, liked how she looked after. “When it was my turn I didn’t like it much,” Jon says to Martin, “I actually…got _bored_ and checked my watch while she was down there—“

Martin lets out a noise, and when Jon looks at him the other man is biting his lip and looks guilty. “Sorry, I don’t want to laugh, it’s not funny—“

“Well,” Jon says, smiling a little, “It kind of is.” He can laugh about his tactlessness _now_, that bit _is_ funny. So is the hazy memory of the look on her face when she caught him. Less funny is what happened after, “She got very upset. Said I must be gay, although she didn’t use that word.”

“I’ve been there. Only she was right about me being gay after all,” Martin says quietly.

“I thought I was until Oxford,” Jon says, “Or at least…I knew didn’t think of girls the way I was _supposed_ to.” He and Martin are still holding hands. This next bit is difficult, “My first year there, I…tested out the theory. I dated this guy…Bernard, his name was. Only for a month or so, but…” Jon swallows, “I think maybe I was starting to fall in love with him? Or I thought I was. And the first time we had sex I…well, I had to get drunk first. But it was exciting once we got going, and I certainly _enjoyed_ it more than with Lucy. Even if I still didn’t…it still wasn’t _right,_ I guess. Then we tried doing it when I was sober…”

It’s not a memory that Jon likes dwelling on. He knows objectively it wasn’t that bad, and no more embarrassing than thousands of other inexperienced people’s sexual encounters. He tries to explain this to Martin without going into too much detail, “I wanted to have a few drinks first and he got upset, asked what was wrong with me, was I _really_ gay or just experimenting. So. Gritted my teeth and got on with it.”

“Oh _Jon,” _Martin says.

Jon shrugs, “I mean, he didn’t force me, and he did stop eventually when he saw I wasn’t into it. Not the worst thing that’s happened to me.”

Martin doesn’t say anything for a few moments, “Did he stop because he was worried about you, or because he was annoyed that he wasn’t getting what he wanted?”

“The latter,” Jon says stiffly. Bernard’s petulant, _Come on Jon, I know you know how to do this, what’s your problem, _still rings in his ears on the rare occasion he gets the urge for anything more intense than hand-holding. He doesn’t mean to tell Martin the second bit, but he’s discovering that the hand-holding is like a truth serum.

Martin squeezes his fingers, “I’m sorry he said those things to you. I’m sorry he pressured you into something you didn’t want. And…and it doesn’t matter if it wasn’t the ’worst’ thing that’s happened to you. Something doesn’t need to be life-destroying to still be awful.”

Jon wants to brush it off again, but looking at Martin’s fingers in his makes it impossible, “Thank you.” They’re both quiet, in a way that feels anticipatory. Finally Jon continues, “It was different with Georgie,” Jon says, “She never…we were friends, first. Best friends, maybe. Met her right after the thing with Bernard. When we started dating…it was never an issue, you know? Gave me hope. I mean, we had a lot of arguments and it didn’t end well, but it was never because of _that.” _Jon thinks for a moment, “Well, maybe a little. But from my end?”

“How do you mean?”

Jon fights the urge to use food metaphors, and instead to be open and honest. He frowns; thinking of his physical relationship with Georgie. He liked holding her while she got off, kissing her neck and sometimes playing with her nipples when he was feeling bold. Liked when she was finished, boneless and shaking in his arms and murmuring his name. Liked to clean her up after, draw a bath and wash her off. She never asked him for anything he didn’t want to give, always backed off when she sensed he was uncomfortable. “I…you know what I said, sometimes I see dessert and want to try a few bites? Well, with Georgie…I wanted to, sometimes, but held myself back. Worried if I did she’d…_expect _it. Which wasn’t fair to her, and I knew it wasn’t, _and_ I knew I should talk to her about it. But I didn’t. I didn’t talk to her about…lots of things.”

Martin is quiet, digesting this information, “Ok,” he says, “I understand, I think. I just…I don’t ever want to make you feel like that Bernard wanker did.”

“I don’t think you could,” Jon says, “I’m sorry I’m not a normal boyfriend.”

Martin stares, “Jon, this is a serious conversation and you have no idea how hard it is not to laugh right now. Out of _everything,_ you think _this_ means you’re not a ‘normal boyfriend’.”

Jon laughs for him, a weak chuckle, “Well. I suppose it’s pretty far down on the list of cons, what with whole…monster thing.”

“There is no list,” Martin says, “You’re right, you’re not a normal boyfriend. That has nothing to do with your ‘monster thing’; and _certainly_ nothing to do with your interest in sex or lack thereof. It does have everything to do with you being Jonathan Sims, though. And I love you, Jonathan Sims.”

Jon takes in a breath. They haven’t actually said the words out loud. “I love you too,” Jon says, “Not just that, but I…before the Unknowing…I realized that I needed to trust people, and that…probably couldn’t happen naturally for me. That I needed to make a decision. I trust you. With…with everything.”

“Well,” Martin says, “I’ll do everything I can to deserve it.”

Jon doesn’t tell Martin there’s nothing more he needs to do to deserve trust. That while it was a decision it was a very easy one to make, and one he hasn’t regretted once. “You’re not a normal boyfriend either,” Jon blurts out, “No normal…no normal person could be like you after everything we’ve been through_. _This…this kind.”

“That’s a decision _I _made,” Martin replies.

“Was it hard?”

“Yes. Not with you, though.”

“I’m glad,” Jon says, giving him a weak smile. He lets out a long breath, “Right. So. That conversation’s done—“

“For now,” Martin interrupts.

“—was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

Martin makes a pleased noise, “Quite a lot, actually. There’s time.”


End file.
